Mabel wanted to greet Mr. Black, too, for there was nobody in the world that was kinder to little girls than the stout gentleman who had just opened their door; but she remembered that the soldier lady (in spite of the Dover egg-beater heart) had remained seated, placidly knitting; so Mabel likewise sat still and plied her crochet hook. "Hi, hi!" exclaimed Mr. Black. "What are you all locked in for? And here I had to ring four times when I came with a present--apples right off the top of my own barrel. Began to be afraid I'd have to eat them all myself, you were so long letting me in." "If we'd guessed that it was you and apples," said Marjory, "we'd have met you at the gate." "Where's the other girl?" asked Mr. Black's big, cheery voice. "Doesn't she like apples, too?" "In the kitchen," chorused Jean, Marjory and Bettie. "Bless my soul!" said Mr. Black, striding kitchenward, "here she is, knitting like any old lady. Aren't you coming in here to eat apples with the rest of us?" "Can't," mumbled Mabel. "What's the matter, grandma?" teased Mr. Black. "Rheumatism troubling you to-day?" "Nope," returned Mabel. "Lost all your teeth?" "Nope." "Are you knitting me a pair of socks or is it mittens?" "Just a chain," replied Mabel, suddenly beaming. "But, Mr. Black, does it really look as if I were knitting?" "Precisely," smiled Mr. Black. "So much so that you remind me of the story of the woman who sat on the trap door and knitted--By Jove! That _is_ a trap door! Here's the ring sticking up." The girls shot a quick glance at the floor. Then they gazed guiltily at one another. Sure enough! The tell-tale ring stood upright, ready for use. No one had thought to conceal it. "Is there a wounded soldier down there?" asked Mr. Black, jokingly. "No!" shouted all four with suspicious haste. The deep silence that followed was suddenly punctuated by a muffled sneeze from Rosa Marie. Undoubtedly, some of the pepper dislodged from the crack in the floor had sifted down to the prisoner. The faces of the four girls flushed guiltily. Mr. Black looked wonderingly at the little group. It was plain that something was wrong. Jean, who had always met her friend's glance with level, truthful eyes, was now looking most sheepishly at her own toes. Bettie, hitherto always ready to tell the whole truth, was now fiddling evasively with the corner of her apron. Marjory's fair skin was crimson; her usually frank blue eyes were intent on something under the kitchen table. "Is there some sort of an animal in that cellar?" demanded Mr. Black. Rosa Marie chose this moment to give another large sneeze. "Is it something you're afraid of?" demanded Mr. Black. "'Fraid of losing," mumbled Mabel, shamefacedly. Poor Mabel realized only too well that she, with her knitting and her too-perfect playing of the part, had given the secret away; and she felt all the bitterness of failure.